This Is Like Prayer

In a park in JerusalemI sit on a stone benchStone at my backIt is cool springLight jacketNo socksand the grass is so greenPatches of sunlight, warmPurple dripping from the trees

Beneath the canopy of green I smell themThe scent heavy beneathfrom what hangs abovefrom what grows to the sideSage, lavender , I never knowmy sense of smell has never been goodbut here, in this city, it is always betterthan other placesThe scent, heavy, familiar, makes me want to weepA happy-sad weepingand I understand what he meantabout smell being the most spiritual of the senses.I hear birds and buses andan occasional sirenI readmy bookThis is peaceThis is prayerIn the holy cityA quiet I accept more readilyhereIn Jerusalemmy city.- EKG'16